Chelle:   "What's with all the Sobe elixir?   I didn't know you dug that stuff!"

Me:    "Nothing.   I just wanted to try it.   All the guys drink it in class."

Chelle:    "Shit, Tina.    That's expensive!"

Me:   "I know."    If only root beer  were green.  

Chelle:  "Well, save some for me, okay?"   

Me:    "Don't worry; there's four left."

Chelle:    "Where?   I don't see any more of that flavor."

Me:    "This is the last one.   Sorry."

Chelle:  "Lemme have a sip of yours, then!"    

Me:    "No!    You have a cold!"

Chelle:    "Sip-py!!    If you can't share your jus, what kind of a friend are you?"

Me:    "Oh, all riiight!"

Chelle:   (Quaffs bottle, draining it.)    "Ahhh!   That really hit the spot.   Thanks!"   And out the door.

* * *

And just when I was thinking--forget what I was thinking!--a CRISIS touched our humble abode!    It was Tuesday Eve, nigh sundown, and the mosquitoes hot and thirsty when a slender blue-veined hand tapped the frame of the front screen door.    There stood a pathetic waif of a girl.    She had short greasy red curly hair and was totally disheveled, dressed in a ragged cotton shift almost like a nightgown; a stained pillowcase tied to her slender waist held her few possessions.   

Was ASHLEIGH around, by any chance?   

"Ashleigh?!?"   Thea exclaimed incredulously.    Turning to Donna, she inquired, "You wouldn't've happened to run into ASHLEIGH these days, hey Donna girl?"

"Nope," said her faithful roommate, braced in the doorway to the hall, where she dangled her feet like an acrobat.    "Haven't heard a word from 'er." 

"She doesn't live here!"   Chelle, lounging with a book on the sofa, yelled.   "Whadda ya want?"  

Maybe they sounded like a bunch of bitches, but we do live on Sorority Row and we're sick of dealing with Cokie's shit.  

"I guess she'll just have to talk to Tina," said Thea, about to walk away and leave the stranger to the others.

Hearing my name, I padded into the living room like a cat smelling dinner cooking.    "You rang?"

"Ooo-EEE!   See what the wind blow in, baby!"   Thea crooned, passing me to go into the bathroom.

What a bum!

It happened that "Cyndria" was one of Wolverine's novitiates.    Having hitch-hiked all the way across the country with her boyfriend to celebrate Beltane in style, they needed a place to stay and were referred to Crow Haven, a neo-Pagan commune way out in the sticks near Sun Valley.    There lived half a dozen experienced witches and warlocks in a 3-bedroom ranch house with barred, shuttered windows, defended by an electrified cyclone fence and an attack dog big enough to bite your head off.   The nearest neighbors lived half a mile down the road and were of the same ilke; the rest of the town hated them and were always calling the police.    None of the coven members could so much as walk out to their car at night without fear of harassment.    Everybody was afraid the whole place was bugged, so they signaled between houses by flicking the lights or sending noxious smoke.   Her guy having chickened out and flown the coop as soon as they spent one night in the bunk room, a dreary converted 2-car garage, Cyndria was left alone to be seduced by the radical group's charms.    New members were hard to find--particularly one so young, pretty, and naive, and they were obviously anxious to keep her.  

"They had her walk around nude so they could reach down at any time and rub her clit or jolt her with the vibrator!    They were always getting her off; it's supposed to make her get attached to them."   I repeated smarmily to my roommies our first moment alone after receiving the vagrant's incredible story in confidence.

"Eeewe!"   Thea gasped.    "Like a little sex slave.   And she just, let them do that??"

"Um, hmm.    You would too if you were plied with that much dope."

Chelle looked perturbed.    "I don't think we should let her hang out, here, Tina." she said, dropping her voice down a notch.    "What if she has lice or steals things, or tries to attack us while we're asleep?    She sounds really wierd."   

"I hear ya," said Donna.    "The way she's so wasted and you had to keep reminding her to take a shower, she seems mentally ill."

I never even mentioned how Cyndria had sat on the vanity chair after taking her clothes off and bled all over the seat because she had started her period and hadn't bothered to insert a tampax.    When I reentered the bathroom, she appeared to be in a daze.    "Why didn't you get up!"  I cried.

"I have cramps," she stated lamely.

Then she couldn't brush her teeth because she was "an Indian Princess" and they weren't allowed to do that.

"She's super fucked up!"  Chelle reiterated.   "Get her outta here!!!"

I felt bad filling in for Ashleigh and acting like Cyndria'd finally wandered into safe and sane territory, only to leave her in the lurch the same as my flippant sister would, but quickly got everybody's point; the girl belonged in the psych ward, or at least the homeless shelter.    So we drove her to the county hospital in the middle of the night and stayed with her until she was admitted on a 3-day psychiatric hold.    (Cyndria:   "Do I get to be put on meds?")   The attending psychiatrist declared her gravely disabled and unable to care for herself.   It was uber sobering.

"What on earth did those creeps want with her?" the doe-eyed, willowy Thea pondered over morning coffee.    "They must've been grooming her for the corn doll or something."

Ritual realness, even human sacrifice?    In our confoundment and yen for midsummer madness, we couldn't help but agree.

Taking time out to catch y'all up on the news as I sit on the balmy screen porch with Thea's laptop, listening to the freeway zip between the thick stand of eucalyptus trees beyond.    Basically everybod's working on their final projects.   I finally got the courage one day out of the blue to walk proudly into ____ Hall and formally declare my major:   Mass Communications.    I think it covers just about all my interests, from journalism to advertising.   Cokie's just about gone.   (She always leaves gradually, like the last vestiges of Winter.)   Brett's still out of school and having as much fun as humanly possible with the old gang before the summer.   Tonight we're heading down to Javier's again for a small dinner party with the guys and their girlfriends, maybe shoot some pool downtown afterwards.   Melissa's pregnant and will probably marry Taylor soon.   They've ('cept Mellie, of course) been riding high on the Absinthe craze, making their own bootleg version of "The Green Fairy" and selling it around for $5.00 a 6-ounce bottle.   They keep pressuring me to try it (Javier:  "It's just the thing to get you divinely inspired, Tina!   Why not join the ranks of your fellow authors and dive in?"), but I don't want to get addicted to anything that murderous to your liver.

It's been just like new love all week with the boy and I helping out at Mr. Olson's latest remodeling job, a nouveau Mission-style home for sale in Beverly.   Nobody's being able to foot the four mil asking price, the owners cleared out last month for Europe so the construction crew could install the must-haves:   a new granite kitchen, marble bath, and bell-shaped fireplace for the family room.    The wife is a prominent plastic surgeon and left a real skull down in the basement.   Every time we stop by after hours to make use of the accommodations, we discover Mr. Olson's moved it to a different location, like the oven or dumbwaiter; you never know where it's going to loom its creepy head next.  He's got it on a serving tray for effect.   It's uber spooky, and naturally designed to scare some decent morals into us--especially approaching the steep circular drive with only a couple dim lights shining through the gray glass stairwell windows and all the furniture draped in ghostly white--but only serves to fuel our ardor as we cling to each other for safety, more out of fear of intruders than the vengeful dead.

We even follow each other into the john, which has resulted in quite a few ultra erotic experiences.   I stepped out of the luxurious steam shower last night to find my love perched nude on the commode, his honey tan skin gleaming like soft leather against the white plush seat cover.   A huge hard-on twitched high against his tight belly.   As my eyes fixed upon it, he grasped it firmly at the base and ran his hand up to the tip, squeezing out a bead of clear fluid.    My womanness started pulsing as I longed to take him inside me and feel our hot juices marry into a magic liqueur of our own. 

"Sit on it," Brett commanded softly, taking me by the shoulders.

I gladly obeyed and straddled him, his lips grazing my breasts.    The commode being the perfect height for a steady foothold as well as the ideal penetration, I was able slide slowly up and down, up and down his slick warm pole until we both gasped in a simultaneous climax.   Thursday he had me on the kitchen island.  It's been totally radical.

Ooh wah.  Life goes on.   Me and the gang had a quiet Cinco de Mayo at the house.   (Chelle and I have decoratingitis again and converted the study to a formal dining room, getting ourselves accused of taking over for Martha.)   Then it was off to Mick's place at Venice Beach for assorted apre diner activities and refreshments.   The dude really gave us a grand guffaw relating how Hollywood producers are so fussy about performers' ears, whether they're large or small, oddly shaped or stick out; thus the hair is adjusted accordingly.   Naturally this gave everyone an ear obsession, which resulted in all the peeps on TV looking like monkeys.   You just can't watch people's ears, man.   It was a total gas!

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MEXICAN LASAGNA

We don't know HOW this ended up on D.J.'s cousin's catering menu from my internal zip drive, but the key to success is frying the tortillas; you can always modify the other ingredients to your taste.

12 medium corn tortillas
corn oil for frying
1 cup (about 4 oz) lightly packed, coarsely shredded Monterrey jack cheese
1 cup (about 4 oz) lightly packed, coarsely shredded Cheddar cheese
2 cups diced, cooked chicken or beef
1 small can (2-3 oz) sliced ripe olives, drained
1 large can (29-30 oz) Rosarita's enchilada sauce
1 small (8 oz) container sour cream

In large, heavy frying pan over medium heat, fry tortillas one at a time in about 1/4-inch oil until stiff but not browned; set aside to cool and drain on paper towels.  Mix together the two cheeses, reserving about a half a cup for the top.  Combine remaining cheese with meat, 2/3 of the olives, and about 3/4 cup of sauce, just enough to moisten ingredients.

Spread about a 1/2 cup sauce in bottom of extra-deep greased 9- by 13-inch pan.   Arrange 3 of the tortillas lengthwise, overlapping edges, to cover bottom as well as possible.  Spoon a third of the meat and cheese mixture evenly over them; sprinkle with another half cup sauce.  Cover with 3 more tortillas, pressing gently to adhere to filling, then repeat procedure to form 2 more layers.  Top with remaining 3 tortillas, the rest of the sauce, and reserved grated cheese; sprinkle with remaining olives.  Cover pan tightly with a sheet of greased foil and bake at 350 degrees F. for about 45 minutes, or until hot and bubbly.  Cool in pan at least 5 minutes before cutting into large squares, each garnished with a generous spoonful of sour cream.